Chapter Eight #4
Ready.
In one fluid movement, Cyrus brought his dagger up and tucked it to Maximillian’s throat. The tip of his blade pricked the
droplet of sweat, pressed wet to hot skin.
Maximillian went very still. Someone screamed from the crowd. Another sobbed. Cyrus paid them no heed.
“Yield,” he said softly.
He could feel Maximillian’s heartbeat in the wrists pressed to his knees, could see it jumping in his throat beside the burnished
flat of his blade. It would take so little effort to turn his dagger, let the sharp edge gorge itself on delicate skin. This
level of trust from Maximillian—his enemy—made him feel giddy, ferocious, impossibly alive. Maximillian had been right. Life was boring, wrongdoer and champion alike. A game like this, an opponent like this, someone as likely to twist the blade as to
yank it free . . . this was far better than any scheme he had embarked upon alone. The fun lay in the risk.
Cyrus looked up. Scores of faces stared down at him, each twisted in alarm but frozen, like the slightest movement might make him slip and end Maximillian’s life.
“See how I bring your champion low?” Cyrus roared. The sudden volume of his voice made Maximillian jerk beneath him. The crowd
cowered. He twisted his expression into a savage grin. “See how I force him to yield before me? I am Cyrus, Earthshaker, and
this is how easily I defeat your best! I do not even need to use my powers!”
Maximillian’s hand had crept up to rest on Cyrus’s thigh. Braced to shove him away, or so it would seem. He felt Maximillian’s
fingers ghost against him, then squeeze slightly in warning, and jolted as a shiver licked up his spine. Not that Cyrus didn’t
appreciate the signal, but he found himself wishing that Maximillian could have found another way to get the message across.
The hand against his thigh was distracting, his body registering the touch as pleasant when it should be anything but.
When Maximillian suddenly bucked beneath him, sending him crashing sideways, it was almost a relief to be rid of their proximity.
Almost, because while it might all be part of the plan, Cyrus still managed to bang his head against the floor.
“How easily you defeat me, wrongdoer?” Maximillian shouted as he climbed to his feet, voice raised above the clamouring crowd. He was
flushed and glorious, hair mussed, green shirt dipping improbably low over his sun-kissed chest. Actually, the shirt was a
little ripped—had Cyrus done that? He hadn’t been actively trying to claw open Maximillian’s clothes, but perhaps he’d not
been thinking—
Maximillian bent to pick up his fallen sword and began to advance, nice and slow. Cyrus stood his ground, letting the moment linger for their audience’s benefit—champion and wrongdoer facing off onstage, perfect adversaries pitted against each other.
“I do not yield,” said Maximillian. “I would never yield to the likes of you.”
“Touché,” said Cyrus. He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep the grin off his face, and not one that would have
suited the picture they were painting. “Well, as wrongdoers never yield either . . .” He took a leisurely step back, reaching
for his powers.
It had been the one point he had harboured a small doubt about. Maximillian thought that he could simply call a very minor
earthquake to distract everyone and make his escape, and he couldn’t very well admit that that wasn’t the case. He’d pulled
a face and muttered something about big shows of magic taking a lot of mental energy, obscuring his lie in truth, and let
Maximillian think that was the reason he was less than keen. They’d settled on a compromise: no earthquake, but the threat
of one. Cyrus just had to evoke his magic enough to stir up fear and panic.
It wasn’t necessarily easy—Cepha sat south of the Beks, far from the lush forests that spanned the north—but it was doable.
Cyrus cast an eye beyond the boundaries of the amphitheatre, where a sparse collection of trees from barren goat enclosures
peered forlornly over the city wall.
Cyrus reached for the trees with his power.
They shrank from him, wary. He concentrated harder, pictured himself exhaling magic into their gnarled old branches, letting it flow down into parched roots and flood them with purple light.
Maximillian covered for him, trailing him across the stage like a cat stalking prey—but slowly, giving him the time he needed.
The trees hesitated. They did not have much to give. But Cyrus did not need much from them—only the connection, to let the
purple light flow forth in warning and in threat.
He opened his eyes.
Maximillian wasn’t quite quick enough to hide the flash of awe that crossed his expression when he took in the glow of purple
fire. Cyrus revelled in it, satisfaction coursing through him until his magic strained at his fingertips.
Maximillian took a step back. He let his eyes widen in alarm that quickly spread to the watching townsfolk.
“Earthshaker . . .” he said warily, and the word rippled out across the crowd. It seemed to ripple across Cyrus’s skin too,
Maximillian’s voice a caress.
It was the perfect get-out clause, a win for both. Maximillian was not losing the fight if he was stopping Cyrus from decimating
the town. Cyrus was not losing the fight if all believed that he did in fact possess the power to do that.
Cyrus raised his arms, not because he needed to but because he enjoyed the theatre of it. It was enough to provoke a flurry
of cries from the crowd.
“He calls upon his powers!”
“He will shake the ground and kill us all!”
The crowd erupted into chaos, pushing and shoving in frantic attempts to escape. Cyrus needed to get out of here, but he spared
one last glance for Maximillian before he did.
The champion looked back at him. He still wore an expression of false alarm, eyes wide and brow furrowed, but as their gazes met, Maximillian allowed the smallest of secretive smiles. For some reason, it was harder than it should be to look away.
But Cyrus had to. He forced his tongue to action. “Until next time, champion,” he said softly, and then he took off amid the
screams of the panicked crowd, vanishing into the shadows before anyone could think to stop him.